"Draw, coward!" he hissed. "It is not enough that you must insult, in the person of an unprotected girl, the oldest name in France, but you dare to taunt with age and unskilfulness a man whose sword is dishonoured by being crossed with yours. Were my age thrice what it is, my arm would still have strength to defend the honour of my house. Stand on your guard!" As he spoke, he made a fierce and sudden lunge, which would have taken a less wary opponent by surprise, and ended the duel on the spot.
It was met and parried, and a cool, steady counter-thrust severed the cord of the cloak about De Roberval's shoulders.
"You fight at a disadvantage with that cloak about you, Sieur. I have removed it," said La Pommeraye, with no scorn in his voice, but with a calm self-possession which told De Roberval that he was indeed in the hands of an opponent for whom he was no match.
CHAPTER III
Had the two combatants not been so deeply absorbed in their own affairs at this juncture, they could not have failed to discover the presence of the three women; for at the sight of her master at the mercy of his opponent, as she supposed, Bastienne forgot her caution, and could not suppress a scream. Further demonstrations on her part, however, were instantly nipped in the bud—if one can use the expression with reference to Bastienne's good Picard mouth—by a prompt and determined application of her mistress's hand. Marguerite's quick eye had seen that her uncle was still uninjured; and at all hazards the secret of their hiding-place must not be revealed. She held Bastienne firmly till she felt the old servant's lips tighten under her hand, in sign of submission to the inevitable; and then, with a whispered warning, and without releasing her grip on the woman's arm, she turned her whole attention once more to the scene before them. Marie, in the meantime, had never taken her eyes from La Pommeraye, and was following his every movement with breathless interest.
The two men stood foot to foot, eye to eye, watching each other as only trained swordsmen can watch. Back and forth they swayed in the clear light of the moon, their swords clashing and singing as they parried or thrust. De Roberval's face, wrinkled and hard at any time, had now an expression of diabolical hate. He was as pale as the walls of the houses in the moonlight, and his eyes glowed with a murderous fire. He seemed reckless of his life, and savagely thrust at his opponent every time any part of his body was left unguarded.
It was otherwise with La Pommeraye. Confident of victory, he smiled calmly at the other's rage, occasionally darting in a straight thrust at some part of his antagonist's body, that told Roberval how entirely he was in the good-natured giant's power. The moonlight, that made the old man's face cold and stony, seemed to illuminate with warmth the handsome features of the younger.
Roberval noted the smile as the moonlight shone full upon La Pommeraye, and his fury increased. Fiercely he flew at him, and thrust with the dexterity which had made him the most distinguished swordsman among the nobles of France. La Pommeraye had to move with lightning swiftness to avoid a wound; and once, indeed, he felt a stinging sensation near his heart, and knew by the warmth at his side that blood was flowing.